As I approached the entrance, I passed through this grand stone archway and saw the glass pyramid rising in the distance.

The pyramid, designed by architect I.M. Pei, was completed in 1989 and stands in stark contrast to the classical architecture of the surrounding palace. On this bright day, the glass structure caught the light dramatically, and people were streaming toward it from all directions.

I stopped for a moment in the shadow of the arch to take this picture before stepping out into the sunlight and joining the flow of visitors heading inside.

Inside the Louvre, enormous paintings dominate the walls of the grand galleries. Some canvases are so large they span nearly the full height of the room. Visitors move slowly through the space — some standing close to study the details, others sitting quietly on benches to take in the scale of the work.

Inside one of the Louvre’s grand galleries, enormous paintings line the walls from floor to ceiling. The room is vast, with a high ceiling and dramatic lighting.

Many of these massive works were originally created for churches or royal palaces across Europe. The Louvre’s collection grew significantly during Napoleon’s era, when thousands of artworks were brought to Paris from conquered territories. Today, the museum displays only a fraction of its holdings — over 380,000 objects in total, with roughly 35,000 works on view at any given time.

In the center of the gallery, visitors sit quietly on a long bench, some studying guidebooks while others simply take in the overwhelming scale of the paintings around them.

A group of children, likely on a school visit, gathers closely on the floor in front of a large painting. Some kneel while others sit, all focused on something in front of them — possibly a worksheet or guided activity.

The Louvre regularly hosts school groups, introducing children to art and history through hands-on learning experiences within the galleries. These educational visits are a common sight throughout the museum.

After walking through the long galleries, I finally caught my first real glimpse of the Mona Lisa. She was surrounded by a massive crowd of people all trying to get close.

The scene was chaotic. Hundreds of visitors were packed tightly together, all focused on the small painting protected behind thick glass in the distance. The crowd moved slowly, and the energy in the room felt frantic.

I stood back for a moment and watched the scene before eventually making my way closer.

I was working my way through the crowd, trying to move toward the center so I could see the Mona Lisa straight on. It was difficult — people were packed tightly together, and everyone seemed to be pushing forward at once.

Even from where I stood, the painting still looked surprisingly small behind the thick protective glass. I kept moving slowly through the mass of bodies, hoping for a clearer view, but it was a slow and frustrating process.

At one point, I turned my camera away from the Mona Lisa and toward the crowd instead. The mass of people — all pressing forward, holding cameras high, trying to get a clear view — was fascinating to watch.

I found myself more interested in the people than in the painting itself. The energy, the chaos, the way everyone was so focused on capturing this one small image… it was a scene worth photographing on its own.

The crowd eventually became too much. People were pushing forward from every direction, and it was hard to even see the painting clearly. I stepped back toward the rear of the room, thinking that I could probably see her just as well on a poster in the gift shop.

Even from back there, though, one thing stayed the same: her eyes seemed to follow me wherever I moved.

This photo shows the reality of shooting inside the Louvre with black and white film in 1994. The gallery was dimly lit, and I wasn’t allowed to use a flash. I was shooting handheld, so I had to push the film to its absolute limit to get any kind of exposure at all.

That’s why these images look so grainy. When you push black and white film that far, the grain becomes very visible. It was just the nature of the medium back then — especially in low-light situations like this. There was no digital noise reduction, no high ISO settings, and no second chances.

I accepted the grain as part of the trade-off for being able to capture the moment at all.

The Mona Lisa is displayed in her own recessed alcove, with an entire wall dedicated solely to her. This is in sharp contrast to the rest of the long gallery, where paintings are hung densely from floor to ceiling, competing for space and attention.

Her isolated presentation makes her feel even more significant — almost like a shrine within the larger museum.

Looking down from an upper level, I spotted this powerful marble sculpture of Hercules. The lion skin draped across his body represents the Nemean Lion, the first of his famous Twelve Labors.

Even from high above, the scale and presence of the figure were impressive. A few visitors had stopped to study it from different angles.

As I zoomed in with my lens, the sculpture of Hercules took on a different feeling. The lion skin draped across his body became more detailed, and the sheer size of the figure was even more apparent when seen from this elevated angle.

A few visitors stood close to the base, quietly studying the work. One person appeared to be reading notes. I stayed there for a moment, looking down, before moving on to explore other parts of the museum.

This powerful Hellenistic sculpture is known as the Nike of Samothrace, or Winged Victory. Created around 190 BC, it originally stood on a stone ship’s prow in a fountain on the Greek island of Samothrace. The goddess Nike (Victory) appears to have just alighted on the ship, her drapery dramatically blown back by the wind.

The statue was discovered in 1863 by a French archaeologist and brought to the Louvre in 1866, where it has become one of the museum’s most celebrated masterpieces. Carved from Parian marble, it is renowned for its dynamic movement and the way the wet drapery clings to the body, revealing the form beneath — a hallmark of Hellenistic art.

Though missing its head and arms, the Winged Victory remains one of the most dramatic and celebrated sculptures from the ancient world.

Again, I was blown away by the sheer size of this sculpture. Almost all of the art in this building — except for the Mona Lisa — was massive. Seeing this statue took my breath away.

This display case is part of the Louvre’s extensive Department of Egyptian Antiquities. The museum houses one of the largest collections of ancient Egyptian artifacts outside of Egypt, with objects spanning from the Predynastic period (before 3000 BC) through the Roman era.

Many of the smaller vessels and objects seen here were used for cosmetics, oils, or ritual purposes. The Louvre’s Egyptian collection grew significantly after Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt in 1798–1801, when French scholars and artists documented and collected thousands of artifacts that eventually made their way into the museum.

By this point in the day, I was fully charged. The sheer scale and beauty of everything I had seen had lit something up in me. I felt electrified and creatively inspired — ready to start making my own pictures instead of just looking at everyone else’s.

I began scanning the building for interesting lines, shapes, and perspectives. When I came across this staircase, I stopped and looked straight up. The clean, sweeping curves and the dramatic contrast of light and shadow pulled me in immediately.

I raised my camera and took this picture.

By late afternoon, the daylight was beginning to fade. Sunset in Paris that day was around seven, and the museum would soon be closing. I had made my way up to the top floor of one of the wings and paused at a window.

Looking out, I saw this striking view: two large statues framing the scene, the glass pyramid glowing softly in the courtyard below, and the grand historic façade of the Louvre stretching across the far side. It was a beautiful, quiet moment.

At sunset, the view from the top floor was breathtaking. The grand courtyard stretched out below, with the glass pyramid glowing softly in the fading light. In the distance, barely visible on the horizon, I could just make out the faint silhouette of the Eiffel Tower. I got goosebumps when I spotted it.

The scale of the Louvre is staggering. Everything visible in this photo is only half of the building — the other half mirrors it on the side where I was standing. And beneath all of this are multiple underground floors. No wonder people say you can’t see the entire Louvre in one day. It truly takes multiple visits to even begin to take it all in.

I raised my camera and took the picture.

I switched from my wide-angle lens to my zoom and focused in on the Eiffel Tower, barely visible through the haze in the distance. Standing high up on the top floor of the Louvre, I felt like I was inside a fortified watchtower, gazing out over the city of Paris.

The name “Louvre” itself is believed to come from an old word meaning “watchtower.” In that moment, it felt exactly right. I got goosebumps as I stood there, looking out over the rooftops as the day faded. I felt so alive.

The light was fading fast, and the thick, dirty window didn’t help. I knew these exposures wouldn’t be sharp or clean, but I didn’t care. I was too caught up in the moment.

Standing there, looking out over Paris as the day ended, I felt a real connection to the early pioneers of photography — Joseph Nicéphore Niépce and Louis Daguerre. In 1826, Niépce created the world’s first permanent photograph, titled View from the Window at Le Gras, after an eight-hour exposure. After his death, Daguerre refined the process and introduced the daguerreotype in 1839, the first practical form of photography.

In that quiet moment at the window, I felt like I was part of something much older than myself — a long chain of people who were also trying to capture light and hold onto moments before they disappeared.

This frame felt like a direct tribute to the early pioneers. I was doing everything I could — carefully exposing the film, then later developing and printing it — to coax those silver halides into capturing the light that was reaching them. It was slow, deliberate work, and in that moment it felt deeply connected to what Niépce and Daguerre had started over 150 years earlier.

Looking out through the window at the fading light, the distant Eiffel Tower, and the grand architecture of the Louvre and the people walking below, the whole scene felt magical. I stayed there a little longer, just watching, before finally stepping away.

I could hear the announcements echoing through the museum — the Louvre was closing, and visitors were being asked to make their way toward the exits. I knew I needed to go, but I couldn’t stop photographing this scene.

The light was shifting quickly, and the Eiffel Tower kept appearing and disappearing through the haze. I stayed at the window, taking frame after frame, not wanting to leave. It felt like the city itself was putting on a final show just for me.

I steadied myself against the wall, pressed the lens directly against the thick, dirty window, and held my breath as I tried to keep the camera as still as possible. Without a tripod, this was the best I could do. I knew the light was almost gone and the image would be soft, but I wanted one last photograph of the Eiffel Tower before I left.

I took the shot, lowered the camera, and put the strap around my neck. Then I turned and hurried toward the exit as the final announcements echoed through the museum.

After leaving the Louvre, I stepped back out into the evening air. The sky had darkened, and the city was beginning to glow with lights. I looked down the long, straight avenue of the Champs-Élysées and saw the Arc de Triomphe standing dramatically at the far end, framed by the trees and the wet pavement.

After leaving the Louvre, I made my way toward the nearest Metro station. The classic Art Nouveau entrance sign stood out against the grand stone buildings of the Palais Royal area. Evening was settling in, and the city was shifting from daylight into its nighttime rhythm.

I was ready to keep exploring. The Louvre had been incredible, but Paris was much bigger than one museum, and I still had energy and curiosity left in me.

Riding the Paris Metro felt like an amusement park ride to me. I was genuinely enjoying the experience — the smooth motion through the tunnels, the way the train glided from station to station, and the simple novelty of traveling underground.

Most of the other passengers seemed completely unfazed, reading or just sitting quietly as if this was nothing special. But for me, it was still fun. I sat there taking it all in, happy to be moving through Paris this way.